


There is a light that never goes out

by upbeat



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Teasing, Unrealized Mutual Pining, very light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25448392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upbeat/pseuds/upbeat
Summary: After closing up the night of their opening launch, David and Patrick order takeout and talk about marriage.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 44
Kudos: 229





	There is a light that never goes out

Patrick could not fix the lights. 

He had Googled a few instructional articles and watched two more YouTube tutorials, but in addition to not getting the flickering to stop, he also somehow managed to completely burn out one of the other overhead lights at the center of the store. 

“Well _that_ was a success,” David teases, standing in the middle of their now mostly darkened store. "In fact, I'd say you're ready to start making your _own_ YouTube tutorials."

Patrick sighs and tosses the screwdriver backwards into the stockroom. He rubs his hands down the sides of his jeans.

"Yeah, and do you maybe want to get in on those? You know, since you helped out so much here." He flips the light switch back on. The sconces on the wall flicker a few times at random. 

"Excuse me, I was out getting our dinner."

Patrick stares at him for a beat and then looks down at the spread of Chinese takeout containers next to the register. 

"We had this delivered, David."

"Yes…" he nods with his whole body. "And I was _outside_ getting it from the delivery man." 

The lights fade out and back in again. Twice. David feels the beginnings of a headache forming between his eyes. He shuts them tightly for a minute and Patrick notices. 

“Okay, what if we just turn them off altogether?” he suggests. 

David opens his eyes, alarmed. “And eat in the _dark?_ ”

"We wouldn't be completely in the dark. We still have a couple lamps here," he points to a desk lamp on the side table and then shrugs nonchalantly. "We could also light some candles?”

David narrows his eyes. “... Like a _seance?_ Mm, no, thank you.”

“ _No_ , not like a seance. Like a… I don’t know…” Patrick trails off, picking at something on the counter. "I just… it might be... nice.” 

The lights flicker around them three more times in rapid succession as the sweet and savory smells from the takeout containers hit Patrick right in the stomach. His mouth waters and he makes a unilateral decision right then and there, pulling open one of the drawers below him to fish out a plastic lighter. He holds it up and clicks it twice for David, a satisfied smile on his lips.

"Okay, fine," David says indignantly as Patrick walks around the register toward the table behind him. “But if you end up burning our store down the night after our launch party, I swear to god…”

“Relax, David. I’m not going to burn our store down,” Patrick grabs a few of the candles off the table.

David watches as Patrick walks over to the bit of open space next to the register and kneels down onto the floor, setting the candles down one by one. He gets up and brings the takeout containers down to the ground, the smell of onions and peppers and sweet and sour pork wafting tantalizingly past David's nose. 

He continues to stare as Patrick sits down directly onto the ground, lighting the candles with four, five, six solid clicks of the lighter and paying absolutely no attention to the fact that his medium-wash denim is now nestled firmly against the bare, hardwood floor.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sitting down,” Patrick states as he begins to open up the containers of food, warm steam rising up from inside. His legs are crossed as best as his snug jeans will allow. “We've been standing all day and I just want to get off my feet and eat."

"On the _floor?_ " David is appalled.

"I recall _someone_ saying a few hours ago, after I asked him to mop the floors...” Patrick starts as he leans over and sifts through the paper bag for their utensils. “... That he’d already done such a good job sweeping he didn’t _need_ to waste time mopping. And that it was _so_ clean, we could, in fact... eat off of it?" 

He pulls out the chopsticks and some extra plates from the bag and sets them down pointedly in front of him. He looks up at David, provoking him with a polite smugness.

David blinks at him. “Yeah, I didn't -- I don’t… I don't think that was me… who said that," he clears his throat. "In any event, there’s a chair _right there_ ,” he walks to the corner and picks up one of their wooden chairs. “It’ll be a cold day in hell the day you see me sitting on the floor in these jeans.”

"The lights, David," Patrick calls out to him. 

With one hand wrapped around the back of the chair, David makes his way toward the register and flicks the light switch off with a click. 

A comfortable darkness falls over the entire store. David blinks twice as his eyes adjust to the soft, amber candlelight coming from the floor in front of him. The two table lamps on the counters give off a warm, modest glow, just enough to help guide him back around the counter.

"And the wine," he hears Patrick say. David grabs the bottle by the neck and walks the few steps over to where Patrick has already started eating.

He positions his chair across from Patrick, careful not to knock over any candles, or, even worse, any of their food. Patrick hands him a paper plate and David leans down awkwardly, picking from each container and piling on as much food as he can fit onto his plate. 

Patrick hums, satisfied. “I still can’t believe we’re actually open.”

“Mm,” David agrees. He takes a bite into an egg roll and licks the corner of his mouth. “Neither can I,” he says, mouth full. 

“And to think it was barely a month ago that we met at Ray’s…” 

“Okay, no, this is weird,” David interrupts. Patrick’s face falls immediately, unnoticeably. 

“I feel like I’m an elementary school teacher about to read you a book during storytime,” he looks down at Patrick on the floor. 

He stands up and pushes the chair off to the side then walks to the stockroom and comes back with a flattened cardboard box. He places it on the ground and arranges himself on it cautiously, bringing his knees in and crossing his legs tightly, one over the other.

Patrick watches with amusement as David maroons himself on the small, square piece of cardboard in front of him.

"I was looking forward to storytime," Patrick jokes around a mouthful of chicken, and then whatever he was going to say earlier is lost in the soft shadows flitting across David’s face. Now that he’s right in front of him, in the flickering orange-yellow candlelight, Patrick notices David’s eyes are darker, but his features are softer and mellow. 

David casts him an unreadable look and Patrick quickly glances down at his plate.

“Uh, so hey, just a reminder,” he says loudly, abruptly changing the subject. “I’ll be taking off next Friday. I’ve got my cousin’s wedding back home.” 

David scrutinizes his noodles, poking at them with his chopsticks.

“Right,” he nods, chewing his food slowly. But he can’t help the grimace on his face, and even in the darkened room, Patrick picks up on it instantly. 

“What’s, uh -- what’s with the face there?”

“I just…” he shrugs. “I don’t really care for weddings."

“You don’t care for weddings? I find that hard to believe.”

David looks up at him. The candles flicker unevenly, illuminating a small crease between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, why is that hard to believe?”

“You were literally watching the wedding scene from When Harry Met Sally on your phone yesterday.”

David looks down and glares at his phone. Traitor.

“Why don’t you like weddings?” Patrick asks casually, popping a piece of tofu into his mouth. He stretches his right leg out in front of him, balancing his plate on his thigh.

David reaches for the bottle of wine between them, puts the mouth directly to his lips, and takes a long sip. 

“Oh,” Patrick says, eyebrows raised. “It’s _that_ kind of party.”

“I forgot the glasses up there,” David waves his hand dismissively. 

“Anyway,” he continues, wincing at the wine’s aftertaste. “I think they’re a scam,” he states matter-of-factly. There’s an unusual hollow cadence in his voice. “I just think they’re a complete waste of time and money. Time and money that could be used on something much more practical.” 

Patrick thinks that sounds terribly rehearsed and not at all like something David would say.

“You know, weddings don’t _have_ to be expensive or extravagant,” he counters.

David nods slowly, swallowing his food. He bites down on a bell pepper and sniffs. “Still a wedding.”

“So, even if a wedding _isn’t_ a waste of time and money because it’s _not_ expensive, you’re still against them because…” Patrick reaches over and grabs a napkin. He wipes the edges of his mouth. 

“Because the idea that people are just waiting around their whole lives for this… one thing? It’s demeaning almost.”

Patrick nods considerably, David’s words rolling around in his head.

“So then are you also saying you’re against the institution that these weddings are celebrating?” 

“The what?”

“Marriage. Are you against marriage?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Between a wedding and a marriage?”

“Mm-hmm."

“They’re not synonymous, David.”

“No, yeah, I get that, based on what you just said,” he says, a touch of annoyance in his voice. The shadow across his face accentuates the sharp, straight line of his nose. 

He feels something like a shift in the airflow in the room, but the candles are barely moving and Patrick is still looking at him like he really is waiting for some kind of fabled story. 

He sighs. “Why are we talking about this?”

Patrick brings his plate up to his mouth, deftly shoveling the remaining bits of food off his plate. 

“I guess I’m just... surprised that you feel this way,” he slurps up a single noodle. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know, David. I mean, you love all those romantic movies. You have such an eye for design,” he looks around the store as if he could actually discern anything in the low light. “I’ve seen your journal. I would have thought you had, like, a wedding dream book or something.”

A wedding dream book. 

“A wedding dream book,” David repeats the words with familiarity. Ruefully. 

“Yeah, you know, I just assumed you --”

“You just assumed I was, what?” David interrupts quietly. “Doodling in a book, lying in wait for someone to propose to me?” 

His words are hard but his tone soft. 

Patrick frowns. “No, no, David, that’s not what I was going to say at all,” he reassures him cautiously. 

There’s definitely a shift in the room now. A weird, profound heaviness cuts through the darkness. Their plates are almost empty, the contents of the takeout containers now halfway gone. 

David closes his eyes and sets his plate down into his lap. He drops his chopsticks there with a muted thud.

"Sorry," he admits. "I know that's not what you meant. Um…” he rolls his shoulders. “It's just not for me, I don’t think. Weddings and… marriage. All that stuff," he claims with his usual reticence. 

Patrick hums, a soft, involuntary sound. David thinks he catches a hint of a small, discreet smile on his lips.

“What?" David asks him.

“What what?” 

“You’re smiling. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it?”

“It's nothing, David."

"It's obviously _something_."

Patrick takes a deep, resigned breath. "Okay, fine. I just… I think this might all be a little bit of a defense mechanism, that’s all.”

“A _defense mechanism?_ ” 

Patrick opens his mouth to speak.

“So you think I’m lying?” David continues, more of a statement than a question. “What do you want? Like, a signed affidavit?”

“Okay, see? David, I’m sorry I said that. Let’s just drop it, okay?”

Was this a fight? 

David picks up a single chopstick, nibbling anxiously at the tip. The artificial taste of wood mixes with the lingering flavor of oyster sauce on his tongue.

Patrick sets his plate down on the floor and runs his hand through his hair. 

“I just,” he pauses and lets out a long, heavy breath. The flame in front of him whips back and forth. 

“I just know what it’s like to have to -- to try to convince yourself to feel a certain way. You know, out of... fear,” he says so gently that it catches David off guard. Patrick looks down then back up at David, his eyes empathetic, his face patched with firelight. "So, I don't know. I just thought maybe…" but he doesn't finish his thought.

David matches his gaze.

“I mean, you don’t want to be somebody’s husband one day?” Patrick continues once more, softly, innocently, maybe even a little sadly.

David softens, too. “No, I -- maybe. I don’t know,” he examines the tip of his chopstick. His voice sounds tacky. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Patrick answers distantly. “Some day.”

They’re both nodding to themselves for one reason or another. 

Patrick’s eyes grow serious and careful. "I'm sorry, David. I don’t know why I made this into a whole thing. I didn't mean to tell you what or how to feel."

"It's fine,” he says and he means it. He smiles, close-lipped and cozy, to let him know.

There’s a dull buzzing coming from one of the table lamps on the counter. The wax on the candles are dwindling, eroding away, the only real, tangible way either of them know how much time has passed. Patrick picks at a lone piece of chicken on his plate.

David clears his throat and takes another sip of wine. 

“Um, what you _should_ tell me is who taught you to hold your chopsticks like that."

"Hm?” Patrick tilts his head to reorient himself after the sudden shift in conversation. “Like what?" he turns his hand over and looks carefully at his fingers.

"Like _that._ Like a…” David waves his own set of chopsticks at Patrick. “Like a construction worker with arthritis." 

Patrick laughs softly. “How am I supposed to hold it then?”

David crawls onto his knees, off the cardboard, moving carefully over the containers of food and into Patrick’s space. He lines his right hand up with Patrick’s, then uses his left to reposition his fingers. David’s fingertips are smooth against the calloused edges of Patrick’s fingers. They linger there for a split second and then David says, “There, perfect."

Patrick swallows and thanks him.

David crawls back across the floor to take his seat when something crunches under the weight of his knee. 

“No,” Patrick bemoans. “The fortune cookie, David.”

David winces and lifts his knee. “Well that’s not a good sign. You can have this one,” he slides the smashed cookie in its plastic wrapper toward Patrick. 

“Why do I get the broken one?”

“Because _this_ was all your idea.”

Patrick smiles, half sarcastic, half grateful. He peels open the wrapper and sifts through the crushed pieces for the slim piece of paper. He unravels it dramatically and David rolls his eyes.

“The greatest risk is the one not taken,” he reads out loud.   
  
They lapse suddenly into an informed silence.

“Um,” David speaks up then. “Where’s mine?” He looks around on the floor and Patrick finds the second cookie to his right. He tosses it over to David.

"What does the future have in store for David Rose?" 

David breaks open the cookie with a loud crack. Patrick watches him intently. 

He reads his fortune silently to himself. 

"Well?"

David lifts his eyes from the paper and stares hard at Patrick then tosses it petulantly in his direction. 

_“Please visit us at www.sichuanpalacerestaurant.com!”_

Patrick starts laughing first. Then David follows, and soon they dissolve into a strange, almost uncharacteristic fit of giggles, a novel thing right there on the floor of their store. A sweet, gentle concession. 

The laughter eventually subsides, and then David stretches his long legs outward. His eyes drift over to Patrick, who's already looking back at him, his face half cast in shadow. He nudges the tip of his shoe against Patrick's knee and hands him the bottle of wine. Patrick takes a sip, and the store is dark but there’s just enough light for David to make out the small dent in his cheek, the curve at the corner of his lips.

Patrick tosses the fortune back at David. It lands perfectly in his lap and David lets out something between a sigh and laugh, leaning backwards on his palms. A shadow skirts across the edge of his smile. There's the rustle of the fortune cookie wrapper under his leg, the crackle of a candle wick burning long and bright.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song by The Smiths.


End file.
